


Today, this ends

by forestgreen



Series: No blood, no alibi [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Lyanna Stark Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:31:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14223201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestgreen/pseuds/forestgreen
Summary: "I was dead one way or the other. But when I die now, I'll die knowing that that blight of madness who called himself king no longer plagues this kingdom." Jaime raises his head in defiance, looking Rhaegar straight in the eye. "If you came here seeking my repentance, I'm afraid you're wasting your time, your Grace. My only regret is that I didn't do it sooner."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set five years after the events of [No blood, no alibi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8508808), an AU in which Lyanna was born the wildest of the Stark siblings and Robert's Rebellion never happened.
> 
> As usual, my thanks go to the magnificent enabler, supporter, and beta-reader extraordinaire **akelios**. She kept me going and inspired me to keep writing. All remaining mistakes are mine.

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When they strip the white cloak off his shoulders it is no longer white but Lannister red—soaked with the blood of the Mad King. Jaime doesn't protest when his brothers of the Kingsguard take away his knives and daggers. They leave his sword where it rests, still rammed to the hilt inside Aerys' guts, the tip protruding out of Aerys' back like the spike of a dragon crest. Prince Rhaegar and the Maester are kneeling in front of the dying king, trying uselessly to stop the thick pool of dark blood widening around Jaime's sword.

The last thing he sees, before the Kingsguards drag him away, is princess Elia's pale face as she clutches her children to her chest and tries to stop them from seeing their grandfather bleed to death right in front of their eyes. She glances at Jaime and their gazes lock, her dark eyes burning into his as the guards take him away. Before he's dragged away, Jaime can see her lips mouthing the words, "Thank you."

After that, Jaime allows the men to haul him away. They throw him into the farthest cell in the Black Dungeons. Jaime crashes against the cold, wet stones of the floor, unable to break the fall. The door slams shut while Jaime is scrambling to his knees. The shrill metal sound of the key grinding inside the lock feels like a death sentence. They walk away, taking the light of the torches with them and leaving Jaime in a darkness so deep that he can't tell if his eyes are closed or open. The silence is just as eerie, only interrupted by the steady drip of water falling and the faint sound of rats scurrying around in the darkness.

Jaime considers getting up, calling after Arthur or Barristan, but knows it's useless. In the five years he has served Aerys, Jaime himself brought men and women to the Black Cells on the king's orders, fully aware that if they ever saw light again, it would be only to die. There's no escape or mercy in the Targaryens' court. Certainly no justice. Arthur and Barristan will no more listen to him than Jaime ever listened to the countless souls he brought to these cells to rot. 

He falls back on the cold stone floor, turns on his side and uses his arm as a makeshift pillow. The memory of Aerys' haggard face gaping in surprise as Jaime's sword cut through his entrails is still fresh in his mind. No more mad orders from mad kings, Jaime thinks with deep satisfaction. He chuckles, giddy with some incomprehensible mix of happiness and hysteria.

In the absolute darkness, sleep falls upon him without Jaime even noticing it, and for the first time in the five years he's been a member of the Kingsguard it comes free of nightmares.

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"Wake up!" someone orders, kicking him in the side.

Jaime startles and rolls to his side, hand going immediately for his sword only to find the sheath missing. For a second he freezes, unsure about what's going on and then the memories hit him all at once.

He blinks at Ser Arthur and Prince Lewyn, both looking as pristine and composed as ever, their silver-white chainmail shining brightly in the torch light.

"Did I really kill the king?" he asks, wanting to make sure he didn't dream it. He had dreamed about it before. On more than one occasion. But it had never felt so real.

"Yes," Prince Lewyn says, "King Aerys is dead. He died yesterday from the wound you inflicted."

"Of all the—What were you thinking?" Arthur spits the words, voice laced with anger. 

Some of the tension still coiled in Jaime's body melts away. "I wasn't thinking," he admits as he stands up, dusting off his breeches. Killing the king hadn't been a conscious choice. The alternative—obeying the king's final order—had been unthinkable. By the time Jaime realized he was not going do the king's biding, his sword had already been piercing Aerys' belly, ending once and for all the king's life.

"Is Princess Elia all right? The children?" he asks.

"Queen Elia is all right," Arthur reassures him. "Shaken by the events, but fine."

"Is it true then?" a voice asks from the shadows.

Jaime straightens up further, automatically coming to attention when he recognizes Prince Rhaegar's voice— _King _Rhaegar now, he corrects himself. ' _I made him king,_ ' he thinks, and has to bite his lips not to laugh. __

__"Your Grace," Jaime ventures, when he has himself under control, "I don't quite understand your question."_ _

__"Are you in love with my wife?" the king asks._ _

__Jaime blinks. Tries to make sense of the words. Fails. Then the meaning finally dawns on him, and this time he can't help the laughter that breaks out. It starts as a choked-up chuckle, which rolls over him like an avalanche, fueled by tension and fear, until he's shaking with it, guffawing at the ridiculousness of it all._ _

__"Enough!" King Rhaegar orders._ _

__Jaime muffles the sounds coming out of him with a hand, trying to control himself. "I am sorry, your Grace," he says, still tittering despite his best efforts. "Just the idea that I—" he chuckles once more, fights it down, sobers up and tries again. "I'm _not_ in love with your wife."_ _

__"Then why did you kill my father?"_ _

__There's no a trace of amusement in Jaime when he answers, "Because he was mad, and he needed killing." His voice is hard as steel._ _

__"That's enough!" Arthur snaps, taking a step forward as if to silence him, but stops himself in the last second, his hand clasped tightly on Dawn's pommel._ _

__Jaime ignores him. His life is over, he knows that. He killed the king in front of the whole court. That's high treason and the penalty is death. Jaime knows this, and the knowledge is strangely freeing. He doesn't need to pretend anymore, doesn't need to force himself to stay quiet when all he wants is to scream. He doesn't need to keep forcing himself to fulfill a vow he's regretted for years. The vow has already been broken._ _

__He's free._ _

__Even death doesn't seem too high a price to pay for the peace that certainty brings him. Free. At last._ _

__"He needed killing, and we all knew it," Jaime repeats. "You might pretend otherwise. Tell yourself whatever lies you need to sleep better at night, but I'm done with it. It's not like it matters anymore. I stood quiet and kept my mouth shut while he raped the queen and executed hundreds of innocents who didn't deserve to die. Through all of the horror, I guarded his life better than I would my own. I tried my best to fulfill my vows. But I was _not_ going to kill Princess Elia and her children to satisfy his madness." He looks at Rhaegar. "Not because I'm in love with her, or whatever it is court gossip is saying. I swore to protect the life of the whole royal family the day I took my vows. Obeying him would break that vow as much as killing him did. At least this way I didn't dirty my sword with the blood of innocents."_ _

__"You could have refused the order," Arthur says._ _

__Jaime chortles, but the sound is hollow and empty. "Yes, of course. We all know that had I refused, he'd have had _me_ killed instead." He shrugs. "I was dead one way or the other. But when I die now, I'll die knowing that that blight of madness who called himself king no longer plagues this kingdom." Jaime raises his head in defiance, looking Rhaegar straight in the eye. "If you came here seeking my repentance, I'm afraid you're wasting your time, your Grace. My only regret is that I didn't do it sooner."_ _

__King Rhaegar steps closer; the light of the torches illuminates his face. Jaime can't decipher the expression on it._ _

__"I understand your motives, Ser Jaime. My father had not been well for some time," Rhaegar acknowledges, and it looks as if it costs him a piece of his soul to do it. "Ordering Elia's death and the children's, just so that I could marry my sister who is not yet four years old…." He shakes his head and shudders. His gaze drifts towards the far wall of the cell and he loses himself to his own thoughts. "A part of me even thanks you for it," he continues absently. "You spared my wife's life. My children's. For that alone I'm grateful." He focuses back on Jaime and his face hardens. "Still, you broke the most sacred vow this kingdom has and brought shame to the Kingsguard. The crime cannot go unpunished. I'm afraid an example will have to be made."_ _

__The words confirm Jaime's suspicions, but strangely enough, he feels nothing. No fear, no regret, not even the desire to plead or bargain. The only thing he wants is for them to either kill him or leave him alone once more._ _

__"We all must do what we must, your Grace," Jaime says._ _

__The king regards him through narrowed eyes, lips pursed in displeasure. Jaime smirks at him with that same sense of reckless cockiness that fills him in the battle field. Rhaegar's frown deepens, not used to such blatant disrespect, but Jaime is quit of bowing to Targaryens, even sane ones._ _

__Rhaegar huffs and shakes his head. "Maybe you need to stew a little longer in the Black Cells. That ought to teach you a lesson." He nods to himself once, turns around sharply and leaves._ _

__Prince Lewyn and Ser Arthur follow him like well train dogs. The cell door closes behind them, the lock turning with its charring metal clang. To Jaime it feels like a victory._ _

__

____

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It's difficult to measure time in the total darkness of the dungeons. The meals help, but Jaime knows from experience that Aerys ordered meals to be served at irregular intervals to further torment and confuse his prisoners. He doubts King Rhaegar would be any different.

Mostly he sleeps the time away. The darkness and the silence help, and sleep is the best way he's found not to think. It comes easy, surprisingly so. The nightmares that plagued him during his service to the Mad King are oddly absent. The few times he wakes up drenched in sweat, the phantom smell of burning flesh still clinging to his imagination, he only needs to remind himself that Aerys _is_ dead, killed by _Jaime's_ hand and that knowledge is enough to fight off the lingering traces of his bad dreams. But mostly, his dreams are peaceful. It's as if his body is making up for the last years. A bone-deep exhaustion he didn't know he had, clawing its way up to the surface and taking him under.

So days pass by, maybe weeks, without visitors or interrogations, and when Jaime isn't sleeping, he can't help wondering on and off about his future. Or lack thereof. They will execute him, of that he has no doubt. The question is when and _how_. By the Seven, he hopes it's a clean, old-fashioned beheading. The idea of burning to death fills him with dread. Mostly, he tries not to dwell too much on such thoughts. It's easy enough. If serving the Targaryens five years taught him anything, it was how to push unwanted thoughts away.

Thus, it comes as a surprise when his cell door opens once more and he sees his father walk in. Jaime rushes to his feet.

"Father," he says, and his voice breaks. He's taken aback by the overwhelming desire to go to his father and … do what? … hug him? Ask for forgiveness. What for? Tywin would never grant it.

It has been five years since he last saw his father. Their last words had been heated and angry. In all that time Tywin refused to visit King's Landing, and Jaime had never gone back to Casterly Rock, not even after he realized that Aerys' offer to make him a member of the Kingsguard was not the honor Jaime thought it would be, but just another gambit in the Mad King's quest to make Jaime's father pay for imagined betrayals. Jaime learned that truth quickly enough, but he had been too proud—is still too proud—to admit that Tywin had been right.

"You have grown," his father says, inspecting Jaime like one would a horse before a purchase. Jaime fights the urge to straighten under the scrutiny. Some things never change.

"I'm no longer five and ten," Jaime points out.

"No, you're a man grown now, old enough to have had a family and children of your own as befits the Lannister heir, and instead, here you are, rotting away in cell, with nothing." Tywin sneers, lips thinning in anger. "You were fool at five and ten, and you're still a fool at twenty."

The words cut, but Jaime pastes a vapid, careless grin on his face, flashing his teeth. "Well, at least you won't be too displeased when the king executes me. One less disappointment."

A flash of fury washes over Tywin's face, surprising Jaime with its intensity. "The king will not kill you if I have anything to say about it, and believe me, boy, I do."

Jaime's smile falters and he looks away. "This is one mess you can't clean for me, Father."

"And what would you know?" Tywin snorts. "You who spent your days playing with swords and dreaming of bards and their silly songs, instead of learning about politics. King Rhaegar needs the Westerlands and he needs to mend some of the bridges his father burnt. Do not fear, son, you will survive your idiocy once more." He walks up to Jaime and whispers in his ear, "I'll make sure of it, but when the time comes, boy, you'd better be ready to become the heir the Lannister House deserves. No more silly dreams. You have a debt to pay, and pay it you will."

"Father, I killed King Aerys," Jaime says, because somehow he doesn't think Tywin understands the gravity of what he did.

"To save the current Queen, the king's wife. The sister of Dorne's prince." Tywin's face is calculating and cold. "Dorne and the Westerlands are enemies that King Rhaegar can't afford, not right now. The North and the Stormlands despise him for what he did to the Stark girl, and the Riverlands and the Vale would ally with them in a pinch. The king will show you mercy; he has no other choice. Though only the Seven know how you could have fallen for such a weak, sickly woman. That Dornish girl was barely good enough for Tyrion, and here you are, willing to die for her."

"I didn't do it for—"

"Spare me," Tywin cuts him off. "I'm done here. Your sister wants to visit. Probably tomorrow."

"Cersei is here?" Jaime's voice breaks with the overwhelming hope that floods him. His beautiful, lovely sister. The other half of his soul.

"Didn't I just say so? Do try to keep your wits about you, boy. You will need them." Tywin exhales deeply and shakes his head. "I will see you in a couple of days. In the meantime, try not to make things worse than they already are."

Jaime gestures vaguely at the small, dark cell surrounding him. "There's really not much I can mess up while in here."

Tywin scrunches his face. "I've learned not to underestimate your ingenuity to wreck your own life. Killing the king in front of a crowd, by the gods. There are more subtle ways to go about such things. Do think before you act, Jaime. There must be a brain somewhere in that head of yours."

"Thank you, father. I had missed the overwhelming confidence you have in me," Jaime drawls. 

"Don't get cheeky with me, boy. I'm the only thing standing between you and death. Do be thankful."

Jaime has no the heart to tell Tywin that there are things not even he can accomplish. "Yes, father," he says instead.

Jaime watches Tywin leave, torn between anger and despair, a part of him wishing that for once their talk had not ended with a fight, but some things are just not meant to be.

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Knowing that Cersei will visit becomes its own kind of torture. Jaime can't force himself to sleep as easily as before, when he knows his sister might come at any minute.

He paces and sits and paces again. It is as if the walls are closing in on him as he becomes aware, in ways he wasn't before, of how truly small his cell is, barely four steps wide and five steps deep. At least the king has been kind enough to provide for a chamber pot which is emptied on a regular basis. A small dignity that has not been stripped from him.

Jaime waits. The minutes stretch into hours. Is it tomorrow already? It feels like many days have passed. Three? Maybe four? Or has it only been a day after all? It's hard to tell. His thoughts are a turmoil of hope and doubt and fear: What if Cersei is not allowed to visit? Maybe the king's patience—whatever little goodwill Jaime has because he saved Rhaegar's wife even if it was at the cost of Rhaegar's father—is gone.

The waiting is driving him mad when darkness and solitude failed to do it.

He sees the faint traces of light before he even hears the footsteps. Female footsteps, accompanied by two sets of heavier boots: Arthur's and Lewyn's. Strange, how Jaime can recognize the steps of those two, but isn't sure if the woman accompanying them is Cersei.

It has been half a decade since Jaime last saw his sister. Cersei asked him to accept Aerys' offer to become a Kingsguard. She'd been so sure that Rhaegar would set aside Princess Elia and marry her, but that didn't happen. Rhaegar had gone and bedded Lyanna Stark instead, and when the girl killed herself in shame and despair, he had refused to bed any other women. Atonement, the priests of the Seven called it.

Maybe they were right. Jaime only knows that it had been three years before Rhaegar had bothered to even visit his wife's chambers, and even then, it was a rare occurrence.

The lock of his cells turns with a loud groan.

"Jaime!" Cersei's voice. He would recognize it anywhere.

"Cersei," he whispers, relief and love and longing flooding through him with a strength that threatens to capsize him. He hurries to the door, anxious to see her. She is like a vision, clad in a gown of lace and silk, hair pinned up like a crown of gold. Her beauty takes Jaime's breath away.

"You came," he says, dazzled by her presence. Jaime's memory did not do her justice. How could have he forgotten that ivory skin, the proud chin, the elegant arch of her eyebrows, the perfect nose?

"Of course I came," Cersei says, stepping into the cell and throwing her arms around him.

Jaime hugs her back, pressing her close to his chest, unable to let go. She smells clean and perfect, of roses and fresh air. He had forgotten her smell, too. Tears well in his eyes and he's glad for the darkness that hides them. He buries his face into Cersei's hair and tries to calm the loud beating of his heart. 

"You stink," Cersei says after a moment, pushing him away. "Worse than a peasant."

Ser Arthur and Prince Lewyn chuckle behind them, and Jaime lets Cersei go, embarrassed.

"The Black Cells are not known for their sanitary facilities," he points out, aiming for sarcasm but not quite getting there. 

"You have twenty minutes," Arthur interrupts, fixing the torch he's carrying into a niche on one of the walls. He nods to Jaime once, before stepping outside and locking the door.

Cersei and Jaime wait until the footsteps disappear in the distance, both of them looking at each other, drinking each other in. Jaime's eyes can't stop roaming over Cersei's body, taking in all the ways in which she has changed. She's twenty now, a woman grown. No longer a girl of five and ten. Whatever childish features she still had when they last saw each other are now gone and she's the more beautiful for it.

How could he have survived so many years without seeing her, without talking to her and holding her in his arms? He moves closer, like a moth drawn to flame, but Cersei raises an arm, stopping him. "You really do stink, Jaime. Haven't they let you bathe?"

Jaime's initial hurt turns into a self-deprecating chuckle. "The Silent Sisters will wash my corpse when all this is over. The king certainly does not care if his prisoners bathe or not."

"Don't say that," Cersei chastises him. "You're not going to be executed. Father won't allow it. Although you do deserve it," she adds, her voice turning cold. "How could you do it? You've put all our plans in jeopardy. And for what? An ugly, sickly woman who should have died long ago. I can't believe that you would betray me for someone like her."

"I—I did _not_ betray you!" Jaime snaps. "That's nonsense!"

"Oh, nonsense?" Cersei mocks. "The whole court is filled with gossip about the two of you. Everyone knows, Jaime. You were her lover!"

"I've never in my life touched Elia!"

"It's _Elia_ now, is it? Is that the proper way to address the queen? _Elia?_." She crosses her arms. "Don't lie to me, Jaime, I can't stand it."

"I'm not lying! I've never been with her. She means nothing to me," Jaime insist. "You are the one that I love, the one I've been waiting for all these years. You, Cersei. My twin. My other half."

"If she means nothing to you, then why did you kill the king?"

"I had to," Jaime says. There's no other answer. Despite all the time he has spent here, entombed in this dark, rank cell, utterly alone, the answer has not changed. "I could not execute Princess Elia and the children for him. Not because I love her, but because it would have been wrong. I would not have been able to live with myself if I'd done it. I knew that, just as I knew that he would kill me for refusing. I was dead one way or the other." Jaime clenches and unclenches his hands. "You don't know what it was like, living here, serving _him_. It was horrible. Every day a nightmare. If I have any regrets, it's not having done it sooner."

Cersei scoffs and her lips curl down with disapproval. "Well, it was stupid of you. But you've never been the cleverest. Father is furious, and with reason. You've turned us into the family of the king's murderer. It will take ages until we manage to fix your blunder, Jaime. You should have obeyed the king and killed them. Rhaegar would have had to marry again. He would have needed new heirs. He might have chosen me!"

Jaime gapes at her. His mouth opens and closes without sound, until he finally manages to gasp, "Pardon me?"

"You heard me. You should have killed them," she repeats, stressing each word. "And if you hadn't been sleeping with her, you would have known better than to disobey the king. So don't pretend she was not warming your bed!"

"Cersei, I…." He trails off, unsure of how to continue. His sister's words are like daggers twisting in his heart. This can't be Cersei saying those things. It just can't be. 

How can she doubt his love? His faithfulness? The memory of her was what kept him sane in King's Landing. It gave him the strength to wake up every morning and face yet another miserable day of the king's madness. Cersei's smile, the memory of her body curled around his, the promises they made to each other, those were the pillars of Jaime's strength. Jaime did this for her. He came to King's Landing because Cersei asked it of him. She wanted him to join the Kingsguard and he did everything in his power to fulfill her wish.

It makes the harshness of her words, the unforgiving anger marring her otherwise perfect face all the more unbearable. Jaime can't cope with it. It's like being caught in a nightmare. He steps back, retreating into the shadows, unwilling to show Cersei how deep her words have hurt him. He swallows the pain and buries it beneath a blank mask of indifference. It's easy enough. Jaime has lost count of how many times he has done it before, that same unbreakable mask he had worn every night while he listened to king Aerys raping his wife. If there's something Jaime has learned since he last saw Cersei, it's how not to let his face betray his inner thoughts.

He doesn't want to believe that his Cersei could be so cruel, but it is as if a dam has broken. Suddenly, he can't stop remembering all those times in which he has seen her hurt their baby brother or be cruel to her friends and cousins. To Jaime.

The words _'You should have killed them'_ echo in his head. How could she say that?

Jaime loves her so much it hurts, but for the first time in his life, he realizes that he could learn to hate her, too. Jaime will never love another woman the way he loves his sister, but he fears that his love is not enough and that hurts even more.

"I couldn't kill them," Jaime repeats.

"And now you will pay the price for it. You know what they call you? Kingslayer," she whispers the word, almost lovingly, and it hits Jaime like a blow. "You've ruined everything, Jaime. I could have married Rhaegar and become his queen. You would have been with me forever, my Dragon Knight. Now you will be thrown out of the Kingsguard and Rhaegar will never marry me. Even if Elia dies, he can hardly marry the sister of his father's murderer. Everything is ruined because of you!"

Jaime clenches his eyes close and balls his hands into fists, glad for the darkness hiding his face. He takes a deep breath, two, three, and pushes the hurt away. And just like that, it disappears. It's easy enough, after so many years spent deadening himself to the screams and pleas of Queen Rhaella, to the sobs of prisoners being burned alive.

When he opens his eyes again Cersei is still there, but she could as well be a painting, for he feels nothing when he sees her. No love, no lust, no longing. Nothing. She's just this perfect stranger, another beautiful woman in a dreadful place doing dreadful things for the sake of power. She can't touch him, for Jaime has spent five years watching beautiful women in dreadful places doing dreadful things for the sake of power. What's one more?

"Rhaegar would not have married you," Jaime says coldly. "He was meant to marry Princess Danerys after Elia's death. And truly, Cersei, having served in this court for five years being closer to the royal family than their own shadows, I can _assure_ you that if Elia does die Rhaegar will not marry again. Not you, not anyone. If you so desperately want that cursed crown on your head, try seducing Viserys instead. He'll make you miserable—I've yet to met a Targaryen that could make his wife happy—but you obviously don't care about it. There, my brotherly advice to you before I die," Jamie says, and chortles. 

"What is wrong with you?" Cersei asks, indignant.

Jaime laughs out loud until his belly aches and his lungs burn with the lack of oxygen. He tries to stop the laugher, but can't quite manage it. Cersei keeps looking at him as if he is the mad one and that sets him off again. She doesn't know madness, not the way Jaime does.

"I hope the king makes it a quick death," he says, after the laughter dies away and he has calmed down some. The prospect doesn't seem as scary now. There's nothing more for him in this realm, nothing tying him down. Not even Cersei.

Will Rhaegar burn him? The Seven know that Aerys would have liked that. Would Rhaegar honor his father's wishes? Or will he be the just, wise king Arthur and Jon Connington keep dreaming about.

Then again, what would a just, wise king do with someone like Jaime, a breaker of vows, a kingslayer?

"Don't say that!" Cersei hisses and then breaks into tears. She comes closer to him and throws her arms around him in a hug, burying her head into his neck. Jaime freezes for a moment, not knowing how to react. All too aware of how rank his smell is when compared to Cersei's cleanness. He stiffens, patting her head awkwardly in an attempt to calm her. He breathes her in, unable to help himself and bit by bit allows himself to enjoy the closeness.

"What will I do without you?" Cersei sobs into his neck. "We were supposed to be together forever."

He cups her face in his hands and kisses her lips softly. "You'll survive," Jaime tells her. It's the truth. She doesn't need him. 

"It won't come to that," Cersei says, straightening. She takes a step back, looking determined. "Father will find a way to save you. I'm sure of it."

"Even father's power has its limits," Jaime says, unwilling to give in to silly hopes. The king will need to set an example. Killing kings, even mad ones, is not the kind of crime that can go unpunished.

Jaime finds that he doesn't care. He doesn't care one bit.

He's glad when Arthur returns for Cersei. "Father will find a way," Cersei whispers in his ear and kiss his cheek. She wipes her tears hurriedly, before turning to face Arthur. "Ser Dayne, I'm ready."

"Good," Arthur says. He picks up the torch from the wall and gestures for Cersei to leave the cell first. He nods to Jaime briefly before following her and locking the door. 

Jaime's shoulders sag as the darkness returns. He sits down, letting the wall support his weight and closes his eyes, listening to their disappearing footsteps. 

He's glad to be alone. A part of his mind keeps replaying her words, over and over, trying uselessly to patch the cruelness of Cersei's words with the memory of the sister he fell in love with. Foolish. He exhales and pushes the thoughts away. 

He slides to the floor and forces himself to sleep instead. Of the few alternatives left to him, sleep is still the best. The nightmares remain blissfully absent.

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A week passes by before anybody else visits, at least judging by the number of meals brought to him. They aren't starving him, that much Jaime knows. Even the food is not as bad as it could be. King Rhaegar is not his father, and all things told, being a Lannister–even a disgraced one–counts for something.

Still, Jaime is surprised when Arthur opens the cell of his door alone. For a moment, Jaime entertains the wild hope that his mentor has come to rescue him, but dismiss it just as soon. The Sword of the Morning would rather die than dishonor himself like that.

"You are to come with me," Arthur orders. "Your trial begins at noon. King Rhaegar ordered for you to be clean and presentable before then."

"How generous," Jaime drawls, sarcasm oozing from his voice.

The next thing he registers is the impact of his back against the stone wall, and the sharp tip of Arthur's knife caressing his neck. "Don't," Arthur snarls in a tone of voice that Jaime has been trained to obey without questioning.

Except that… as with Cersei, Jaime finds that his reactions are all off. He is no longer a squire, or Arthur's subordinate. He is not even his brother anymore. Jaime cut all those ties when he cut through Aerys' gut. Arthur would not bother to piss on him if Jaime was on fire. Jaime is nothing to the man, and strangely enough, in that instant, Arthur is nothing to him.

"Really, Arthur, is this supposed to scare me?" Jaime mocks him, relaxing into the tight grip, letting the wall carry his weight. "I'm dead either way. In this cell, by your hand, or in front of a bloodthirsty crowd, burnt to death while the king watches on and cheers, it's all the same to me. Actually," he adds, thinking it over, "I would much rather die by your hand. So if you feel so inclined, go ahead and finish it. I'm certainly in no position to stop you."

"What is wrong with you?" Arthur asks, and presses the tip of the dagger slightly harder into Jaime's throat. 

The same words Cersei had said to him, in the same tone of voice. Maybe there's something wrong with Jaime after all.

"I don't know," he answers truthfully. "But by the Seven, I wish that whatever is wrong with me now had been wrong with me from the beginning. I would have spared myself so much grief and heartbreak. Well, do you intend to finish it or is this just an empty threat?"

Arthur takes a step back, releasing Jaime's shirt and puts the dagger away.

Jaime rolls his eyes and huffs. "Thought so. Can't kill anyone without your master's leave, can you? Such a good, well trained dog you are."

Arthur's hand tightens on the grip of his sword, but he doesn't raise to the bait. Pity. If Arthur had killed him, it would been cleaner and faster than whatever the next Targaryen king has in store for Jaime.

"Tell me something, Arthur," Jaime says, tilting his head in curiosity. "After all, it's only you and me here. You seem so angry about what I did that I have to wonder what you would have done in my place? If the king had ordered _you_ to execute Princess Elia and her children, would you have obeyed?"

"He didn't order me to do it, and that's something I will thank the gods for until my dying day." Arthur looks Jaime in the eyes. "But if he had, I would not have broken my vow to protect his life at the cost of my own. I would have put down my sword, knelt in front him and asked for his mercy."

Jaime laughs out loud. "You and I both know that king Aerys did not know the meaning of that word. He would have killed you like a dog."

"And I would have died like one, but true to my word."

Jaime snorts. "Maybe it's a good thing he ordered _me_ to do it instead. I like my way better." He points to the door. "Shall we?"

For a moment it seems as if Arthur is going to add something, but he closes his mouth and shakes his head. "You first," he says, and places his hand on hilt of his sword warningly. Jaime is actually flattered. Even if he had had his sword with him, he wouldn't have stood a chance in a fight against Arthur.

He shrugs. "Lets not keep death waiting, then." He walks out of the cell, glad that it all will be over soon. If death is anything like the absolute peacefulness of his dreamless sleeps, then Jaime won't mind it all too much.

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Cleaning off the grime and dirt of weeks in the dungeons is a gift. The bucket of water the servants brought is cold but crystal clear and there is an old piece of soap big enough for him to scrub his skin clean until the rank smell clinging to him goes away. After he's done, a servant arrives to shave him and trim his hair. A true luxury Jaime had not been expecting.

There are even clean clothes waiting for him, and though the distinctive white garments he has worn for the last five years are missing, the clothes fit perfectly. He recognizes Cersei's hand behind this—or maybe his father's? Tywin is the sort of man who would want his son to dress as it befits his station even if it is to walk to his death. Especially if it is to walk to his death. Jaime's fingers trail over the scarlet shirt with its golden embroidery and the blood red dyed leather vest unsure how to feel about it. So much has changed since he last wore Lannister house colors. Another life. Another Jaime. Putting on the garments feels like going back in time: a faint echo of might-have-beens. 

He's barely finished when Arthur returns to bring him to the king. Arthur's eyes travel up and down Jaime, taking in his appearance and his face hardens minutely. "The king is waiting for you, Lannister."

"Let's not dally, then," Jaime drawls sarcastically. 

The throne room is empty, except for the four Kingsguards surrounding King Rhaegar and Jon Connington, sitting in the place of the Hand. The Iron Throne suits Rhaegar, better than it did his father. Jaime hopes he will be a better king, too, at least then Jaime's death would not be for naught. He can't help a quick glance at his former comrades. It's strange to see them there, glaring down at him. Jaime recognizes the formation they are using, one reserved for dangerous situations. It takes him a moment to grasp that _he_ is the danger they are worried about, and when he does, he almost chokes on the chuckles that wants to escape. 

He looks King Rhaegar in the eyes, defiant and fearless. He does not expect clemency, nor will he beg for it. Mercy is not a virtue that graces the Targaryen line. _Fire and Blood_. Besides, Jaime can't bring himself to feel remorse for ending Aerys' life. The look of scorn and self-righteousness on his ex-brothers' faces does not change that fact. If anything, it only serves to harden his resolve.

The king stares at him silently, face impassive and thoughtful. "You put me in a difficult situation, Ser Jaime," King Rhaegar finally says.

And all of a sudden, Jaime is half-drunk with the same recklessness that flooded him the day he killed Aerys. The world-shattering insight that he does not need to play Targaryens' games. There's something liberating about certain death—he no longer needs to pay attention to pleasantries and politics.

"I aim to please, your Grace," Jaime says with a mocking smile, bowing slightly. But not as deep as the presence of a king would require. Arthur stiffens next to him and the other Kingsguards ooze disapproval.

Strangely enough, King Rhaegar is the only one who doesn't seem surprised or displeased. He almost seems amused by Jaime's antics.

"You broke vows of protection and loyalty as old as the Seven Kingdoms," Rhaegar says. "You killed your king, which is in itself a crime punishable by death. But more than that, you broke your vows as a Kingsguard."

"And by doing so I saved your wife's life and the lives of your children, the future rulers of the Seven Kingdoms," Jaime reminds them, refusing to feel shame. "Didn't we have this conversation before?"

"As I said, a difficult position," King Rhaegar repeats, unperturbed by Jaime's cheek. "Your father has asked me to spare your life. He has offered much in exchange for it."

Jaime raises a questioning eyebrow. "And does the mercy of the king have a price?"

"You insolent whelp! How dare you?" Connington says, taking a step forward.

"Jon, be silent," King Rhaegar commands. He turns his glare to Jaime. "Are you trying to provoke me into killing you, Ser Jaime?" 

"I wasn't aware that you would need further provocation. Wasn't killing your father enough?"

"It was plenty." Rhaegar examines him carefully. "You seem like a man who has looked death in the face and does not fear its final kiss. That makes you very dangerous, Ser Jaime. I could have you killed today, right now, in this very room. It would not be the first time blood has washed the stones of this floor." He gestures at the empty throne hall. "Or I could have you publicly executed. You committed high treason; trial by combat would not even be necessary."

"I am well aware of the many ways in which a king can kill his subjects with or without the law backing him," Jaime says nonchalantly. "I did serve under your father's rule for five years. If you intend to recount all the options you have for killing me, you might as well add old-age, because we will be here a while."

"That's the thing, Ser Jaime," Rhaegar says, silencing the angry mutters of the Kingsguard with a gesture. "You seem almost keen on dying and I'd hate to give you what you want. Death would make a hero out of you. Even now the bards are starting to sing songs about the brave Ser Jaime, praising your star-crossed love for my wife."

Jaime gawks at the king and then barks a laugh. "Are they really?" he asks, and chuckles again. "How horrible. Killing me would be the greater mercy, if I'm spared from having to listen to such tripe. Are the songs as sickeningly tragic as the ones they sing about Lady Lyanna Stark?" 

"Enough!" Rhaegar bellows, and his voice rumbles and echoes through the empty halls like thunder. The voice of a king. "I will not make a hero out of you, Lannister. You will not die today or tomorrow," he says. "Not publicly, nor in secret. You will be stripped of titles and honors. You will march North, to the Wall, and take the Black, and you will die away and forgotten in the cold of winter, as far away from King's Landing as I can send you and still have control over you. That is my sentence."

Jaime stills. "What?!"

"You act like a man who thinks himself already dead. Well, no punishment will be greater than having you live long enough to relearn regret." Rhaegar looks at Arthur. "Get him out of here."

Jaime is too numb to fight, not that he would have had a chance against Arthur, who half-drags him, half-pushes him back into his cell.

The door closes once more with the by now familiar jarring sound of rusting iron moving on itself. Arthur takes the torch with him, leaving Jaime once more alone with his thoughts in utter darkness.

The Wall. Jaime sighs and groans. It is a death sentence, but one that will take decades to be completed. He'll die one day at a time, cold and forgotten, guarding the realm from poachers and wildlings and non-existant monsters from old wives' tales.

Burning would have been a quicker, cleaner path.

The only difference between a mad king and a sane one is that the former is cruel out of madness, and the latter out of intent.

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He does not see Cersei again. Only his father and Tyrion come to say goodbye at the harbor, where the ship taking him to the North is preparing to part. Arthur hovers in the background, far enough to give Jaime some privacy to say his goodbyes, but a constant reminder that escape is not an option.

Tyrion has grown, is the first thing Jaime thinks when he sees his brother and it is such a strange thought. Yet, despite being still not tall enough, Tyrion has gained some height in the last years, lost some of his baby fat. Jaime can see the man his brother will become.

"I've missed you, little brother," Jaime says, because it's true, and also because he knows it angers Tyrion to be called little, and it's Jaime's job to tease him in a way that is not meant to hurt.

Before, Tyrion would have given a quick, witty reply–whatever Jaime's brother lacked in height he more than made up for with the sharpness of his mind. But Tyrion does not counter the teasing, he throws his little arms around Jaime's waist and hugs him, sobbing quietly against Jaime's shirt.

Tywin grabs Tyrion by one shoulder and yanks him back. "Stop sniveling like a woman," he hisses through clenched teeth. "If you can't control yourself, you will leave."

"He's just a child," Jaime defends his brother. "Let him be." He goes to Tyrion and crouches in front of him until he's looking directly at his face. "Don't worry, Tyrion. I'll be okay."

"Stop cuddling him and telling him useless wives' tales. He's not a child. He is a Lannister!" Tywin snaps. He turn to the bannermen guarding them and orders, "Get him out of here."

"Father, please, I won't cry," Tyrion says, wiping the tears from his face with jerky movements. "Please."

"Now!" Tywin orders, when the men hesitate.

"Father, please." Jaime stands up and glares at Tywin. "I won't see him again."

Tywin's face twists with anger and something than on any other man Jaime would have called regret, but he knows his father too well for that. 

"Then you should have thought about that before. Thanks to your foolishness this aberration is now my heir and you are the one to blame." Tywin scowls, bitter and angry. "You renounced your place with your house and left me with this sniveling excuse for a human being who will never even make it to a full man. And for what? To serve a king that you ended up killing in the most asinine way imaginable."

Beside them Tyrion is pale and trembling. He looks as he's about to start crying again, but he swallows it down, his face hardening in a way the reminds Jaime of their father. "Take care, brother," Tyrion says. "Don't let the North get the better of you. Good-bye." He then turns, marching away by himself, not giving Tywin the satisfaction of letting the bannermen drag him.

"I won't," Jaime assures him. He watches Tyrion's small frame disappear followed closely by two of their house guards. He snarls at his father, "That wasn't necessary."

"And what would you know? You've proven beyond the shadow of a doubt how little you understand about how things work. Maybe the Wall will pound some sense into you. Enough that when the time comes, you might be grateful for the honor that it is to be the Heir of the Lannisters."

"I will never be the heir of the Lannisters," Jaime retorts. "No one leaves the Wall."

Tywin rolls his eyes. "Don't be silly, boy. The king sent you there. The king can bring you back."

"And why would the king do that?" Jaime mocks.

"Let that be my concern. It's not as though you know anything of kings or politics. Had you paid any attention to my lessons instead of wasting your time playing with swords, you would not be in this predicament to begin with." Tywin's face scrunches with scorn. "But you left before I could teach you anything useful, head full of dreams about knights and honor. And here we are, not five years later, and all you are filled with is regrets."

There's no point in defending himself. His father would just see it as another sign of weakness. Well, there is one regret Jaime does not have: avoiding his father's never-ending lectures. 

Jaime reins in his temper before he answers, "Things are as they are. Not even you can change them now."

Tywin levels him with a disdainful glare. "When I came here, your death sentence was as good as signed. And yet here you are. Alive. Going to the Wall, yes, but alive. I made that possible."

"This has nothing to do with you. King Rhaegar had his own reasons to spare me." The Wall is the king's way of stashing Jaime away, a sword too expensive to throw away but not good enough to keep around. 

Tywin rolls his eyes and exhales. "Even the dwarf is more intelligent than that. Of course king Rhaegar had reasons. I made sure of it." He steps close to Jaime and grabs his shoulder, pulling him close. "You will go to the Wall and stay there for as long as it takes, but when the time comes for you to come back South, you will accept it. You will take your mantle as heir of the Lannisters and thank me for it. Is that clear, boy?" he hisses. "No more shenanigans."

Jaime bristles, yanking his shoulder free and stepping back. He raises his head in defiance. "You can't get me off of the Wall, father. Even your power has limits."

Tywin snorts. "One son born with half the wits and another with half the height. What did I do to deserve this?"

Jaime swallows an angry retort. There's nothing to do other than endure until it's over. "I apologize, father," he says, when he has himself under control. "You know best." What's one more placating lie?

Tywin frowns, eyeing Jaime with suspicion. "Maybe you're not as hopeless as I thought. You will hear from me. Until then, keep your head low and try not to mess up more than you already have." He turns around and walks away, not bothering to glance back.

Jaime watches Tywin until he disappears among the crowd. He breathes in and out slowly, bracing himself for what lays ahead. When he turns, Arthur is still there, watching him like a hawk, ready to stop Jaime should he try to run, not that Jaime would. Where would he go? What would be the point?

He ignores Arthur and instead peers at the silhouette of the king's palace towering over the city's skyline. Cersei is there now, in one of those hundred rooms, trying to ingratiate herself with Rhaegar and his newly formed court. She didn't even come to say goodbye. Something inside Jaime twists and breaks further, even though he, in his eternal naivety, had thought that there was nothing left to break.

"Time to leave," Arthur says, startling Jaime from his morose reverie.

"Yes, it's time," Jaime echoes. He glances once more at the palace, and then turns, slogging unwillingly towards the ship that will take him North to a new kind of hell.

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He's expecting Arthur to make sure that Jaime boards the ship and does not get off before it departs, but Arthur does more than that. His servants bring bags, horses and weapons with them and start loading them into the ship.

"Are you coming along?" Jaime asks, watching the proceedings with curiosity.

"Yes," Arthur replies curtly.

Jaime quirks an eyebrow. "Is the king really so worried that I might—do what exactly? Why is he sending _you_ along?"

"Not everything is about you, Lannister," Arthur replies, a scornful edge to his tone when it curls around Jaime's last name.

"Really?" Jaime counters drily. "You're leaving your precious king alone and defenseless just because you have a sudden urge to travel North?"

"Watch your tongue, Lannister. He is your king, too."

With deliberately cheek Jaime replies, "Yes, and he has me to thank for that."

Arthur presses his lips into a tight line, biting back whatever retort he has ready. He takes in a deep breath and lets it go. "My sister is traveling North," he says in an even voice. "King Rhaegar was gracious enough to grant me leave to accompany her."

Jaime raises a disbelieving eyebrow and then shrugs. "Well, if that's all there is to it."

Grudgingly, Arthur adds, "He also asked me to make sure that your father doesn't try anything."

Jaime laughs out loud. "Oh, Arthur, if my father were to try something, I guarantee you would not see it coming. Why is your sister traveling North?" he hurries to ask, changing the topic before the argument grows further. "I thought Eddard Stark had agreed to live with her in Dorne."

"Things changed," Arthur says grimly. "Brandon Stark died in a hunting accident and his widow is without issue. The raven with the news arrived three weeks ago. Lord Stark wants Eddard back in Winterfell. He is the new heir."

"Your father must be ecstatic. Your sister is going to become Lady Stark of Winterfell. I suppose marrying the spare paid up." 

"She married him out of love," Arthur reminds him.

"I'm not saying otherwise, but with the oldest brother dead, that marriage is now a far better match than she would have ever hoped to accomplish otherwise," Jaime points out.

His thoughts stray to Cersei, still unmarried at the age of twenty. Of the current and future Lords of the great houses only Robert Baratheon and Jon Aeryn remain free. Vaguely, Jaime wonders if their father will finally consent to a match, or if he is still hoping that she will become Rhaegar's second queen as unlikely as it seems. Or maybe they will settle on Viserys and hatch another Dance of Dragons. The idea of Cersei marrying anyone makes Jaime's skin crawl, but he pushes the jealousy away. Cersei's future is no longer his problem.

"It's too far away from Dorne, and much too cold," Arthur says worriedly, and it reminds Jaime that Ashara has lost two pregnancies and her health has not been the same since.

"I fully agree. Dreadful place, the North. It's where the king sends traitors to be forgotten and die. What did your sister ever do to deserve such fate?"

Arthur chuckles and then glares at him, angry that Jaime managed to get him to laugh.

Jaime sighs. "We both know that the King needed to punish me. I was actually expecting him to chop off my head. But don't pretend you didn't pray every night for Aerys' time to come to an end. We all did."

Arthur straightens and looks at Jaime down his nose. "I might have prayed for his death, but I would have never been the one to cause it."

"Yes, the Sword of the Morning would never break his word. I know." Jaime looks away, watching the sea meet the sky in the horizon, blue upon blue. "I'm not you," he says after a heartbeat.

Jaime stays there, letting the sun caress his face and breathing in the sea air. After so long in the darkness of the Black Cells it feels like a blessing. Arthur remains close by, but doesn't talk and strangely enough the silence is comfortable instead of heavy. Jaime can almost pretend that they are still friends.

They watch as the sailors raise the anchor and release the sails, allowing the wind to push the ship slowly out of the harbor into the open sea. King's Landing grows smaller and smaller until it disappears from view and only the sky and the ocean remain.

"Good riddance," Jaime whispers to himself. Whatever comes, he is now free of Targaryens and their madness.


	2. Chapter 2

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Kingslayer.

The word clings to him like a shadow, whispered in corners or sneered to his face. People follow his every move, their eyes never leaving him, until not even the sea and the sky are enough to stop Jaime from missing the solitude of his cell, where people's fear and scorn could not touch him.

Jaime wants nothing more than to hole up in his cabin and be left alone, but he is too much of a Lannister to give them the satisfaction. So he swaggers across the ship, head held high and an eternal smirk pasted on his face.

Kingslayer.

He takes the word and owns it, wears it like another piece of armor. Tyrion would be proud. His little brother, who spent his childhood laughing at people's scorn and disrespect, twisting their words until it was them who felt small in their stupidity. Jaime does not have his brother's sharp wit, but he doesn't need to. 

"If you want to avenge Aerys, you are welcome to try," he says to Eddard Stark. "I'd love to duel you."

"We don't duel in the North," Stark answers, making it sound as if the mere suggestion was an offense, too. 

Stark is such an entitled self-righteous prick. If there's something Jaime can't abide is men so full of honor that it oozes out of them like a stench. Men who only see black and white. Even Arthur, the Seven bless him, knows about shades of grey. No one could serve King Aerys that long without their honor taking a dent. Arthur is a man who knows that honor has its price. Stark is just a fool. Jaime doubts he will make it long as head of his house, unless Winterfell is kinder to its rulers than the South is. He certainly wouldn't survive long in King's Landing or the Westerlands.

At least the fool is easy enough to manipulate. Whenever Stark comes close to him, Jaime raises an inquiring eyebrow at him, flashing a bit of teeth. More than challenge, it's dare. Jaime relishes the flash of anger that clouds Stark's face before the man can control it.

"Would you stop trying to enrage my husband into killing you?" Ashara tells Jaime two weeks into their journey.

Jaime bows his head in greeting. No woman will ever come close to Cersei in Jaime's eyes, but he recognizes beauty when he sees it, and Ashara is one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom. Much too beautiful for the likes of Eddard Stark. 

They are both standing on the main deck, watching the ship cut through the waves like an arrow. The tantalizing smell of stew wafts on the evening breeze mixed with the salty tang of the ocean. Ashara had sought him out after the bell had called the men for dinner. Everyone had hurried below deck, looking forward to a warm meal and even warmer ale. Jaime had stayed behind, as was his custom, having bribed the cook with enough coin to guarantee the best parts were set aside for him later.

"You should tell your husband to stop making it so easy," Jaime answers her. "What brings you here, Lady Stark? I'm quite sure neither your husband nor your brother would approve if they knew you were all alone with the kingslayer."

"It's Ashara. We've been over this before," she corrects him gently.

"Before," Jaime repeats. "I've come to the painful realization that now and before are different things. I was Jaime to your brother before, or Ser Jaime, when he wanted to prove a point. Now, I'm just a Lannister."

"My brother is a fool," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "He, like everyone in this wretched kingdom, is too afraid to admit even to themselves that you did them a favor." 

"Careful, my Lady," Jaime mocks her. "Those are treasonous words, or so I've been told. Your husband and brother might overhear."

Ashara huffs and comes closer, leaning on the railing next to Jaime. "Arthur and Ned both know better than to try and control me. I'm more stubborn than both of them put together."

Jaime's lips twitch. "Quite the achievement, my Lady. I'm impressed."

"Besides, what they don't know won't hurt them. I can count on your discretion, I assume."

"My lips are sealed." Jaime brings thumb and forefinger to a corner of his mouth and twists them, mimicking the closing of a lock.

Ashara giggles. "Thank you, Ser."

"Why did you come here?" Jaime asks again.

"Two reasons," she says, voice sobering. "To thank you. For sparing Elia and the children's lives. For doing what needed to be done. Don't." She stops him, when Jaime opens his mouth. "I'm the sister of the Sword of the Morning, and the wife of the future Warden of the North. Those are not words I'm allowed to say, and I will deny with my life having said them. Still, here, in the dark of the night, with all the men gone and only the moon and sea for witness, I wanted you to hear them."

Too little, too late. Too easy, to say it here, where the words have no consequences. Rage and helplessness rise up in Jaime like bile. He clasps the railing until his knuckles are white with the strain of stopping himself from lashing out, saying things he will truly regret.

It would be too easy to let Ashara carry the brunt of his suppressed anger when it is not her fault, only because she has the misfortune of being here, now.

"You said two things," Jaime grunts out, when he has himself under control. "What's the second."

"To give you this." She digs into the sides of her dress and pulls out a sealed letter. "Queen Elia asked me to give it to you in private."

Jaime eyes the letter warily, before plucking it from her hands. He turns the envelope around. It's blank. Even the red wax is smooth and empty, devoid of the markings of a seal. "You've done your duty and obeyed your queen. Now leave."

She opens her mouth as if to protest but thinks better of it. "Of course." She curtseys briefly. "I hope we can talk to each other again."

"If you manage to escape your minders," Jaime comments.

Her face turns mischievous as she replies, "I'm good at that. Good night, Ser Jaime."

"Good night." He watches her go.

The blank envelope taunts him, thick and heavy in his hand. He turns it around and around. Good, quality paper. Royal paper. Except for all the ways in which it is not. No Targaryen seal, not even a Martell one. He doubts the letter it contains will be even signed.

Jaime snorts. He open his fingers and lets the wind carry away the unopened envelope. It dances away up and down and up and down, before it finally falls into the sea. It floats on the water, soaking it up, before its swallowed by the ocean.

Just more empty words, without witnesses or consequences. He does not need the headache trying to read the queen's letter will cause. He did not kill the king for Elia. Jaime killed Aerys for himself.

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Winterfell is a dreadful place. It reeks of death and sadness, like an odor the servants cannot scrub away. The narrow windows are barely enough to let sunlight in, giving the castle a gloomy aura that fits the pervasive grim mood of its inhabitants.

The journey from White Harbor to Winterfell had been ghastly enough. The road covered in ice and snow. The cold, cutting wind raging against their party, making every forward step a hard-won victory. The thick pelts his father had bought him were barely enough to keep the cold away. It crept underneath everything until only throat-burning ale could chase it away. And yet, even that awful journey paled compared to Winterfell proper.

The dry room and the warm bed are better than being on the road, even if they lack the simple luxuries any self-respecting castle South of the Neck would provide, let alone the seat of one of the Great Houses. Still, Winterfell rubs Jaime wrong. He cannot stand being in the same room with Lord Rickard Stark. It's like watching a walking corpse that has forgotten it is already dead. Looking at him makes Jaime's skink crawl. The old man wears his sadness and misery like a contagious disease that infects anyone stupid enough to get close.

Catelyn Stark is no better. A barren, childless widow with dark circles beneath too red eyes. A woman that once hoped to rule the North and now is worth nothing. Her face contorts with jealousy whenever she sees Ned Stark smiling at Ashara. Jaime wonders if Arthur sees it, too. Jaime keeps his thoughts to himself and tries to stay untouched by it all.

The sooner he leaves Winterfell behind, the better. He's not looking forward to the Wall, but anything will better than the Starks' somber faces and their not so veiled contempt whenever their paths cross with Jaime's. Even the prospect of never-ending snow and mind-numbing boredom, patrolling a useless border with no true purpose save to stop the North from being raided by wildlings, seems more appealing.

The delay stems mostly from Arthur's reluctance to leave his sister alone in that joyless place, a sentiment the men of the Night Watch are only too willing to indulge, relishing every day away from their duty. Jaime cannot fathom becoming one of them: a useless bunch of rapists, thieves and piss-poor pissants without prospects.

"It's not like you have to accompany us," Jaime protests, when yet another flimsy excuse keeps them from departing.

"I want to see the Wall," Arthur lies with ease. "It's not an opportunity I intend to let pass."

"Opportunity?" Jaime snorts. "I know a king's order when I see one."

"Then you know why I need to accompany you," Arthur admits. "I was asked to witness your vows to the Night Watch."

Jaime rolls his eyes. "You can stay here if you want. I promise I will not make a run for it." He does not intend to leave Westeros and become some useless sellsword in Bravos. If his destiny is to die of boredom, frozen on an ice Wall separating nothing from nothing, so be it.

"Alas, we both know how little your promises are worth these days," Arthur deadpans. 

Jaime swallows an angry retort. "If my word is worth so little," he answers coldly, "what's even the point of you wasting your time to accompany me? I could as easily break my vows once I've taken them as I could break my promise to you now."

"But breaking those vows will end with your death, whereas a promise to me means nothing."

Jaime snorts. "Please, I've already broken vows that should have ended with my death, and yet here we are."

"Yes, here we are, your second chance," Arthur says. "And I'm to guarantee that you take it, Lannister. There are no more chances after this."

"Better hurry it up, then. I can't wait for my second chance to begin," Jaime drawls sarcastically.

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Another week passes by before they are finally ready to depart. The journey is supposed to last a moon-turn, provided no snow storms slow them down. It takes less than a fortnight for Jaime to regret having left Winterfell. His imagination had failed to conceive how much harsher winter could get the further North they travel up the King's Road.

One thing is clear, despite Arthur's opinion the Night Watch is not a second chance but a slow death sentence. Jaime is not going to survive the Wall. There's no way humans can live in such weather.

"We need to stop while there's still daylight," Qhorin Halfhand protests, when Arthur tries to keep them moving for a while longer. His brothers from the Watch nod and mumble in agreement. "Night falls quickly here, quicker than you'd expect," he says to Arthur. "Best stop now. We crossed the Last River two nights ago; it won't be too long now until we've reached the Wall. The woods here are infested with wolves. It pays to be careful."

Jaime snorts.

Halfhand glares at him. "You'll learn soon enough," he says, brows narrowing with anger. "Wolves are a plague around here. Clever beasts those. We've lost cattle to them, and some men, too." His lips curl into a mean, self-satisfied smirk. "Especially young recruits from the South. Wolves know what makes easy prey. Right smart they are."

Jaime rolls his eyes. "If there's anything I'm not, it's an easy prey. Let the wolves come if they want. A new pelt will surely come in handy in this horrible weather."

Arthur bites down a smile. The two of them share a knowing a look. Wolves have nothing on men. He and Arthur could dispatch them in the blink of an eye, not that these Northern peasants would comprehend the skills that being a Kingsguard require.

"Fair enough. Let us stop here, if you think it best, Qhorin," Arthur says, trying to soothe the man's ego.

It's not as if Jaime is about to protest. One more day of this hellish journey won't change much. He jumps off his horse and ties it to a nearby tree, before helping to set up the camp. Even Arthur lends a hand, despite his squire insisting that he rests.

Night falls quickly as Halfhand predicted, and the temperature drops even further. The wind cuts like the edge of a knife, and their paltry camp is not enough to keep it at bay. Jaime's nose and lips are numb and the skin of his face hurts, pulled taut by the unyielding cold. He shuffles closer to the fire and pulls the hood of his cloak closer in, trying to shield his face.

"Cozy up here," Arthur says with sarcasm, inching closer to the fire, too.

"You don't say. Your sister will be the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms, ruling over this welcoming land," Jaime deadpans.

Arthur shrugs. "She'll grow used to it. She has a good husband. That's more than most women can claim."

"That's what Queen Elia thought once, and look how happy she is."

Arthur's face hardens. "Watch your words, Lannister. You are not one of us anymore."

Jaime tilts his head and scrunches his brow as if thinking it through. "I wasn't aware that saying that Queen Elia was happy with her lot in life was something to watch out for," he says sweetly.

"If you're trying to provoke me into a duel, it will not work." Arthur's words are measured and calm.

Truth be told, it would be easy enough to provoke Arthur into a duel. Jaime knows the man too well, and unlike Arthur, Jaime has _nothing_ to lose. Still, he lets the comment slide. Arthur is not the one Jaime is angry at.

He glances around. The men of the Watch are listening closely while pretending to be busy, but they lack skill at deception. They would not have made it through a single day in Aerys' court. Simple men, no better than savages. Jaime can't believe that by the next full moon he will be calling these uncouth brutes 'brothers.' He, who not long ago was equal to Ser Barristan the Brave, and Ser Arthur the Sword of the Morning. May the Smith grant him strength.

Jaime pushes away that depressing thought and pours himself some warm ale. It burns down his throat, warming him from the insight. At least the booze is not bad. It might be the only thing to keep him sane in this ungodly land. Such great destiny lies ahead of him. Becoming a drunkard in a useless attempt to drown his misery. Alone and bored to death, frozen to the core of his soul. The highlight of his days being a feeble fight with some untrained wildlings, who won't even own a sword. Wash and repeat until the end of his days.

He drinks a second mug, and then a third. It does not make his _second chance_ look any less bleak. Next to him, Arthur is fidgeting with the desire to order Jaime to stop. If they were in King's Landing, if Jaime were still his brother, he would have, but Jaime is no longer under Arthur's command. More's the pity.

Soon enough Jaime will have new brothers, and a new commander, and a new black cloak to mirror his black mood. "To the Night Watch!" Jaime calls loudly and raises his glass. All men cheer along — except for Arthur. Jaime gulps down his drink chuckling to himself.

"You've had enough," Arthur hisses at him after a while, unable to help himself.

Jaime snorts. "I'm not even close to having enough. All the ale in the Seven Kingdoms would not be enough," he slurs. "You should have some. A man needs a bit more than honor to get him through winter. But what would you know? Ser Honor of the Morning himself." Jaime laughs at his own joke. Arthur's face hardens and it only makes Jaime laugh harder. Hilarious, all of it.

He gives Arthur his smarmiest grin, all teeth and dimples, and raises his glass to him mockingly before drinking some more.

After a while, the desire to piss finally overcomes his reluctance to expose his dick to the freezing temperatures. Warrior give him courage, a land where even taking a piss is something you need to think twice about. Death would have been better.

The world sways around him for moment and he stumbles, catching himself at the last second. The bloody snow is slippery and the trees keep moving.

"You should have not drunk so much," Arthur chastises him.

"Piss off, Arthur," Jaime slurs. "What should you give a shit about what I do? I'm not your brother any longer, in case you forgot. I'm a traitor now." He leans closer and has to catch himself on Arthur's shoulder when he stumbles. "A kingslayer." He guffaws, and it makes the world around him spin faster. "I'm a future man of the honorable Night Watch. Here to keep the North safe from wildings and more wildlings."

"You're drunk," Arthur says.

"How very observant." Jaime stumbles over the words. "They sure know how to pick them for the Kingsguard. Observant, brave knights, who keep their mouths shut and do as they are told." He pats Arthur's cloak. "I'll tell you secret." He leans into Arthur and mumbles in his ear, "Living among rapists and peasants was not what I wanted to do with my life, but I much prefer it to a pristine white cloak under Aerys." 

"Lannister," Arthur warns him.

"Lannister this, Lannister that. Spare me the sermon." He pushes himself away from Arthur, stumbles and falls on his butt. He closes his eyes and a wave of nausea washes over him while he waits for the world to stop moving. After a moment he opens his eyes to find Arthur watching him with a worried expression. Jaime can't stand it. He picks up some snow with his hand and lets it trickle through his fingers. "Seems like white will never stop surrounding me," he mumbles to himself and snorts. "With my luck, this one might melt away, too."

Jaime forces himself up and stumbles away after some of his dizziness clear.

"Where are you going?" Arthur calls after him.

"To take a piss," he shouts back, not caring who might be listening. "Wanna hold my prick while I do it?"

Arthur does not dignify the question with an answer and Jaime laughs some more as he makes his way on unsteady feet to the edge of the camp. 

He is still struggling with the opening of his breeches when the long, loud howl of a wolf pierces the night. Another howl follows and then another, closer still. The men in the camp scramble for their weapons and stand up, getting closer to the fire.

Jaime is about to join them when he sees a pair of impossibly bright amber eyes peering at him through the darkness. He swallows, heart hammering against his chest as adrenaline courses through his veins. Jaime stays still, all too aware that running would only make things worse.

"Jaime, get back here," Arthur orders. It's the first time Arthur has called him anything but Lannister since Jaime killed the king.

Slowly, he steps back. The wolf growls and moves closer, enough that Jaime can recognize its shape in the darkness. It's a massive creature, as big as a bear. Jaime didn't know wolves could grow that big.

"Direwolves!" One of the men of the Night Watch screeches, voice dripping with fear. 

The wolf leaps, and Jaime runs, but he's not fast enough. The impact knocks the air out of him, throwing him to the ground. The screams coming from the camp get louder and more desperate. Jaime tries to regain his footing, but can't. The creature has a firm grip on his right boot and no matter how hard Jaime kicks and struggles, it drags him away. The heavy leather of his boot stops the teeth from piercing through Jaime's flesh, which is a blessing, but the lacing around the leather is too tight for Jaime to be able to slip his foot free and run.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the other wolves fighting with the men of the Watch … and with Arthur. Arthur's swords gleam in the firelight as he slashes and cuts, trying to slay the monsters. Jaime fights harder, wanting to go to his aid, but the direwolf doesn't even notice Jaime's kicks.

It's impossible to get a grip on the slippery snow to stop himself from being dragged. Finally, his hands manage to hold on to the thick root of a tree, stopping the wolf's momentum. It growls and pulls, but Jaime refuses to let go. He can't see the others anymore, the sounds of the fight faint in the distance. He braces himself on the root and kicks against the wolf's snout with his other foot as hard as he can. The wolf whines, but doesn't let go.

Hope flares in Jaime when he sees a human approaching from behind the wolf. The man comes closer and the wolf seems not to notice him, too intent on Jaime.

The man crouches next to the wolf and pats it head. Jaime blinks. What in the name of the Seven? Jaime's alcohol befuddled brain cannot make sense of it. Is he dreaming? 

A sharp, burning sensation pricks Jaime's thigh and spreads through his body. He wants to scream for help and warn the others, but he can't seem to find the words. Before he loses his hold on consciousness the last thing he hears is the man whispering to the wolf, "Well done."


	3. Chapter 3

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Jaime comes back to himself in stages. Pain is the first thing he registers. His head throbs and his unresponsive muscles fail to obey him. Even swallowing to ease the thirst scorching his throat is an exercise in futility. His tongue feels like a useless piece of dead flesh stuffed into his mouth.

By the Seven, what happened to him? His memory is patchy at best. He remembers leaving Winterfell, the journey to the Wall, and then… nothing. Absolute blankness. He tries again to force his body to move and barely manages to twitch the fingers of his hands. 

"Give it a minute or two," a woman says next to him. "The antidote is still working."

Antidote? Was he poisoned? Where is he? His mouth can't shape the questions buzzing inside his head. All that comes out is an unintelligible groan.

"That wasn't a minute." The woman sounds amused, but Jaime's stirring annoyance vanishes when she places a cold cloth on his forehead, easing the headache.

He relaxes into the touch and lets the time pass. He dozes off again, and when he wakes up next, he feels more like himself. He's inside some kind of wooden cabin, resting on a makeshift bed, covered by warm furs. A fire burns in a corner, and Jaime wants nothing more than to bury himself into the furs and continue sleeping. He hasn't been this warm since he left Winterfell weeks ago.

The cabin door opens and someone walks inside. "Feeling better?"

Jaime blinks, surprised. It's the same female voice from before, but the figure it belongs to isn't dressed like a woman. She is wearing leather breeches and boots instead, her upper body covered in thick grey furs that make it hard to distinguish the shape of the body underneath.

"Where am I?" Jaime rasps out, throat parched.

The woman comes closer and sits on his bed, offering him a steaming cup of something greenish. "The tea will help. Drink it."

The light illuminates her face when she leans down, and Jaime is taken aback by her beauty. This close, she looks unmistakably female, even though she wears her hair shorter than most women would. The thick shaggy locks are longer in the front, tips brushing the edge of her shin as she bends to straighten some of the furs on the bed. It should look horrible, and yet the dark hair frames her face perfectly, only serving to highlight her beauty. For Jaime, who has spent his life comparing every woman to Cersei and finding them lacking, it's odd to meet someone whose beauty equals hers. 

The stranger looks nothing like his sister. That, Jaime would have understood. Her allure is a wild, untamed thing, difficult to grasp and yet undeniable, like the beauty of a storm — awe-inspiring and unstoppable. Cersei's beauty has always been like a work of art, faultless, exquisite, thought-through and planned for maximum effect, the kind of beauty men would kill to own. Men would not kill to own this woman, but something tells Jaime that she could easily get them to die for her.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"My friends call me Lya," she answers as she helps him sit up. She brings the cup of tea closer to his lips and steadies his trembling hands while he drinks.

The tea tastes bitter, but it warms him and clears his head, erasing the last vestiges of his headache. "What happened?" 

"I stole you," the woman—Lya—says, as if she was commenting on the weather.

Jaime stops sipping the tea and pushes the cup away, frowning in confusion. "You did what?"

"Stole you," she repeats as nonchalant as before. "Sorry about the poison. I needed to get you out of there without you struggling too much." 

Poison? Well, that explains some things at least. He should probably be more worried than he is. Mostly, Jaime just feels ill and tired. He exhales and lets his head fall back on the pillows. "You chose the wrong person to kidnap," he explains listlessly. "My life does not have much value these days."

"I didn't kidnap you. I _stole_ you," she clarifies, as if there was an obvious difference between the two concepts that Jaime was too slow to grasp. "I don't want a ransom. After all the trouble I went to get you, why would I give you up?"

Jaime sighs. This has to be a nightmare. "People will come looking for me."

"Doubtful." The woman shrugs. "Nobody sends search parties to look for the dead."

The easy, matter-of-fact tone unsettles him. "I'm not dead."

"Of course not," she reassures him, "but people don't know that. I made sure of it. Torn pieces of a human arm here, shreds of your cape drenched with blood there, some of your hair for a bit of effect. It's not like direwolves leave much of a body after they're done feasting."

"What?!" Jaime tries to stand up, but the room tilts as a new wave of dizziness crashes over him.

"Don't try to stand up yet," she cautions him. "Your body has not fully recovered. You don't need to worry, though. I didn't kill anyone to steal you. Even the human arm wasn't really my doing. Just some poor bastard the Karstarks hung from a tree after they found him poaching."

Jaime ignores her blabbering, his mind stuck on one thing and one thing only. "People think I'm dead?"

"Yes, I already told you that. No one will come looking. The Night Watch will send your remains to your family and that will be that. The life and death of Jaime Lannister." 

"How do you know who I am?"

"Please, everyone knows who you are." She rolls her eyes. "The Kingslayer, sent to the Wall as punishment for his crime," she sing-songs and chuckles. "News travels fast around here." 

"News travels fast everywhere. Do they really think I'm dead?" He can't wrap his mind around it. 

She tilts her head, studying him with open curiosity. "You seem upset."

Jaime gapes. "I can't imagine why," he snaps at her, sizzling with anger.

"Well, neither can I." She ignores the sarcasm. "Your life was over anyway. People in the North think serving at the Wall is an honor, but Southerners don't share that belief. For you the Wall is just a convenient punishment for murderers and thieves. Why would you want to live among such men? Don't give them the satisfaction."

"Excuse me?"

"Rhaegar may think himself merciful because he spared your life, but we both know that sending you to the Night Watch wasn't a mercy." Her words tear down his defenses, laying Jaime's soul bare. "You would have been wasted at the Wall, Jaime Lannister. A kingslayer, that's all you would ever be to them. Why would you accept that, when you can be so much more?"

"Be more?" Jaime's laughter is hollow. "There's nothing more for me to be," he says wearily, anger forgotten. "Kingslayer is not the type of title one gets to leave behind."

"Kings don't matter here," she tells him.

Jaime stares at her incredulously. "Kings matter everywhere."

"Not here. The Targaryens' kingdom ends at the Wall. Not even Aegon the Conqueror made it this far. We choose our own kings here, when we bother to have them. The Targaryens and their lords, even your father, they don't matter North of the Wall." 

"We are North of the Wall? How did that…? How long was I out?" They had been at least a week away when the attack happened. "Wait a moment," he says, and his brows furrow with disdain as realization strikes him, "you are a wildling!" 

He's heard about wildlings, of course, especially during his journey to the Wall. It was all Halfhand and the others talked about. Listening to them one would think that the Night Watch's only purpose was to stop wildlings from launching an invasion on the Seven Kingdoms.

The woman grins. "Yes, though we prefer to call ourselves free folk." There's pride in her voice and amusement.

"You don't talk like a peasant, let alone a wildling." Jaime frowns. Whoever she was, she had not grown up a wildling. She spoke like a lady: her vocabulary, her grammar, even her accent. The North was there for all to hear, but she talked like someone who had spent countless years listening to a Maester drone on and on. Jaime would know.

"That's the beauty of being a free folk. We are free to do whatever we want and talk however we please. How I speak does not make me any less of a free folk. You can become one, too."

"No, thank you," Jaime snarls.

She studies him as if Jaime is a puzzle she can't quite solve. "Why not? You can't possibly tell me that dressing in black and listening to people whisper behind your back and insult you for what should be considered your greatest deed holds any appeal to you."

"My greatest deed?"

"Killing Aerys. He was a cruel monster, and sooner or later he would have destroyed Westeros with his madness. Even here, beyond the Wall, we heard the stories. How he burnt children and men and women for no reason, how he laughed as they died screaming. People cheered when the ravens came telling about his death." Her grey eyes pierce through Jaime when she speaks, "You did Westeros a favor by killing that man. They should have thanked you for what you did, but instead they sent you here to die forgotten."

She is giving voice to Jaime's thoughts and it terrifies him. He fights back the urge to look away, to avoid the stare that seems to be able to see down to the marrow of his bones. Not even Cersei has made him feel so exposed, so transparent. Jaime became whoever Cersei wanted him to be, just to please her, and Cersei saw what she needed: the brother, the lover, the partner, the confidant… and in the end, the traitor.

His heart beats with fear and he swallows. How can this woman he has never met before read his deepest thoughts so accurately? Is she a witch?

"What they think does not matter," Jaime says, when he manages to find his voice. "The Wall is my sentence and I will bear it." He had told Arthur as much.

Her lips curl in contempt and her eyes flash with anger. "Why? Why should you do what they want?"

"To clear my honor!" Jaime snarls, startling himself. Until that moment he'd truly believed that he did not care what his fellow Kingsguards thought or said, what they called him. Apparently, he had been lying to himself all along. Some wretched part of him still hoped for a redemption that would not come. He could make it to Lord Commander of the Night Watch and still they would not forgive him. Jaime snorts and shakes his head. Pathetic. 

"Honor, really?" The wildling woman levels him with a disbelieving look. "You are dead. Jaime Lannister died ripped apart by direwolves. Nothing cleans honor better than blood. Let them mourn you, those who will, and let those who won't think the gods punished you for your crimes. Leave them to their world of _honor_ and _lies_. You're free of it now." She gestures around, encompassing the cabin and the world around it with her hand. "Here, you can be whoever you want.

"You're free from the yoke of your father's expectations, the weight of your last name, the dreams and ambitions that have been imposed upon you since birth. Who have you been until now?" Her voice mocks him, "The man your father wanted you to be? The man your prince wanted you to be? I'm telling you, you can be more if you choose. You can be whoever you, Jaime, want to be. If you dare."

Jaime stands up on unsteady feet and moves away, needing to put some distance between them. Her words creep underneath his skin, awakening feelings he had long ago gave up upon: hope and longing, purpose. He spins around and faces her, rage sweeping aside everything else. He remembers a time when he'd let hope and longing and a sense of purpose guide him. Back them it had been Cersei instilling those feelings in him and it had ended up with him swearing his life to a mad man. He will not repeat that mistake. Certainly not for a stranger.

"What do you know of honor and last names and fatherly expectations?" Jaime growls.

"What don't I?" she replies, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. "You don't think you're the only person out there who has a last name and an ambitious, domineering father, do you?" She stands up and walks towards him. "Why, once upon a time I even had honor, too." She snorts. "I left it all behind when I crossed the Wall, and I have yet to regret it."

He studies her again, trying to picture her as a noble lady. Despite her diction his mind fails to comply. No noblewoman in the Seven Kingdoms would dress like she does, with leather and breaches and wild furs. She might speak like a lady, but she looks like the wildling she claims to be.

She raises her chin, unafraid, almost contemptuously, daring him to find fault. A jolt of recognition surprises him. Jaime has seen those grey eyes before, looking at him with the exact same superior scorn — those are Eddard Stark's eyes.

"What did you say your name was again?" he asks slowly, at the verge of a revelation. So near, he can almost touch it.

Her eyes light up with mischief. "As I said, my friends call me Lya." The grin takes over her whole face, and it's easy to understand why he didn't make the connection before. In all the weeks he'd spent with Starks, he'd never seen one of them smile. They seem to have forgotten how.

"Lya," Jaime whispers, tasting the name, unable to believe what his own mind is telling him. "Lya… Lyanna? Lyanna Stark?"

"Hush, Lyanna Stark is dead. A tragic story, haven't you heard?" Her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter as she tries and fails to put on a serious air. "The poor thing, madly in love with a faithless prince who promised her a crown and a kingdom only to betray her." She pretends to wipe fake tears with the back of her hand. "The bards sing the saddest songs about her." She breaks out in giggles.

"You didn't die," Jaime says, still processing the information. Unsure what to do with it. What does it even mean? What does it change? Nothing, it changes nothing.

"Nope." Lyanna shrugs. "As if… Why would I give up my life when I'd just gotten what I wanted?"

"What you wanted?" 

"To end my betrothal to Robert." She shrugs. "As soon as the news of my affair with Rhaegar came out, Robert was just too happy to toss me aside like yesterday's garbage."

"Prince Rhaegar dishonored you," Jaime points out, slowly, confused by having to explain it at all.

Lyanna's face hardens. "Rhaegar didn't take anything I wasn't willing to give him. It might have been foolish, but I refuse to regret it. For what it is worth, in hindsight I found losing my honor rather freeing. A leash I didn't know had been choking me my whole life suddenly gone." She smiles, and her face looks wistful, almost fond. "My family treated me like a criminal. They wanted me to pay for what I did, to spend the rest of my days filled with misery and regret, tied to some man I didn't choose and would probably never care for." She shrugs. "So I cut my losses and left."

Jaime gapes at her, unable to believe his ears. The story about Lyanna Stark's death had traveled like wildfire across the Seven Kingdoms. Jaime remembers Prince Rhaegar destroying a room in a pique of fury and pain when the raven arrived. He'd refused to bed any woman, even his own wife, for over three years. 

Lyanna, if this is truly her, does not seem nearly as affected. She seems… happy. Happier than King Rhaegar for sure. Happier than all the Starks Jaime has had the misfortune to meet.

"But… how? How can you possibly be alive? They searched for you. They found your remains. Wolves had… oh." Jaime rubs his face as realization downs on him. "They never found a body, just remains, eaten by wolves. Supposedly. And then, they stopped searching."

Lyanna nods and grins, obviously pleased with herself. "I told you, nobody searches for dead people. They will no more search for you than they did for me. You are a free man now."

"I'm not you," Jaime snaps.

"Of course not, but we are not as different as you may think. They sent ravens to all corners of the Seven Kingdoms while you rotted away in jail, telling the world of your crime. And suddenly the same people who cursed Aerys' name and wished for his death while he was alive were outraged on his behalf, treating your actions like a terrible crime that needed to be punished.

"That's what sending you to the Wall is all about. Honor was as much your leash as it was mine. You broke it and now they want you to pay for it, to spend the rest of your days filled with misery and regret, tied to a cause you didn't chose and will probably never care for." She slashes through the air with her hand. "You don't owe them anything. Cut your losses and leave."

"I owe it to myself. I knew that killing King Aerys would not go unpunished, and I did it anyway. I'm not running away from the consequences like a coward."

"You are not a coward," Lyanna tells him. "It's much harder to do a wrong thing for the right reasons than to let wrong reasons stop you from doing the right thing. King Aerys was a monster and knights are supposed to kill monsters. Had he not had that crown on his head, everyone would have thanked you for getting rid of him."

"But he did have that crown."

"And did the crown make him any less of a monster, or more of one?"

A king is a king. Arthur, Rhaegar, Connington, his father, even Cersei, they have all thought Jaime was wrong for doing what he did. What a king does is always right, because a king is a king, and around and around it goes.

"Your father and your brothers don't share your opinion," Jaime points out feebly.

"It's safe to assume that my father and my brothers don't share many of my opinions. It's why I'm here, one of the free folk, and they are there, living their little lives, paying for honor with misery and tears. They are _wrong_ ," she says with conviction.

Jaime wants to believe her. He wants to believe her so much that he fears she's put a spell on him.

"They are wrong," she repeats, snaring him with her words. "And if honor does not agree, then it is not welcome here. Cut the leash and be free."

"I don't know how," Jaime admits.

"Then I'll teach you. Stay here, a moon-turn, that's all I ask. If you still want to go back after that, I will bring you to the Wall myself."

"I don't believe you. You would not risk me going back to tell."

She shrugs. "You will not want to go back. There's nothing there for you. I know it. You know it. And in a moon-turn, you will be ready to admit it to yourself."

"A moon-turn," Jaime agrees, reluctantly.

She nods, her smile dazzling.

She's right. There's no going back. Jaime Lannister is dead. Few will mourn him, but Jaime does not believe he will be among them.

 

El Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it for now! Thank you for reading _Today, this ends_. I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to know that there are like-minded fans out there willing to spend time (the most precious of resources) reading something I wrote.
> 
> Thank you for your comments and for bookmarking, subscribing or pressing the kudos button. Feedback is love and it feeds the souls of writers :D 
> 
> There will probably be more one-shots in this universe, but I still don't want to commit to anything. I would love to write a 'five-times' type of story from Lyanna's POV, which will give more insight into how she ends up becoming Queen-Beyond-the-Wall. We'll see how that goes.


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